


Some Say In Ice

by Nonymos



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Animal Death, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Divergence, Emergency Sex, Loki Does What He Wants, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-08 03:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13449720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: Loki decides to get his scepter back from HYDRA. The Winter Soldier is sent to stop him. Surely everything will go just as planned for all parties involved.





	1. Loki

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tranquility](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tranquility/gifts).



> At very long last, here is my second fic for Fandom Loves Puerto Rico. Thank you so much to Tranquility for bidding on me, and for being so patient and supportive while I wrote this odd lil rarepair one character at a time. :D
> 
> There are six chapters and I'll be posting them every other day. Leave a comment if you're so inclined!

 

 

 

 

 

The whole attempt was a disaster, Loki was not too proud to deny it.

Everything in his life had been going extremely well for once. Thor gone, Odin banished, Asgard under his thumb, and his own self praised in alleged, heroic, selfless death. Not to mention the Tesseract safely locked in the vault, far away from Thanos’ purpling hands.

So why, oh, _why_ did Loki have to go back to Earth?

The official answer, the one he tried to keep at the forefront of his mind, was that it would have been criminally stupid to just leave the Mind Stone on Midgard. Especially when Thanos knew to find it there. Loki had a role to uphold, now—even if it wasn’t technically his own—and he meant to protect Asgard, and incidentally himself.

But the truer and more shameful answer was that Loki had grown hopelessly bored. Odin was a stiff character to play; and it was lonely at the top, as they say. Not to mention nobody even _knew_ it was him! Loki could throw a great many plays in celebration of himself, but none of them would ever make up for the fact that his greatest victory remained a secret.

So he’d gone looking for trouble, and as per usual on this accursed realm of Midgard, he’d damn well found it.

 

*

 

“Good evening, Mr. Laufeyson.”

Loki’s whole body was aching; the steel restraints pinning him to his chair were not helping. Blood had matted his black hair to his face, and he had a few teeth missing in the back of his mouth. Beneath the pain and humiliation of it all, he was faintly impressed. It had been a long time since he’d been so thoroughly beaten up—since the day of the Hulk, in fact, though he was loathe to remember it.

He sniffed, then let a green shimmer run over himself to make himself more presentable. After which he looked up at the man looming over him, who gave him a civil smile. Alexander Pierce, Loki noted with total disinterest. He’d looked into him before attacking Midgard that first time, though he’d ended up facing Fury instead.

“We had a feeling you might want your scepter back. So we prepared for the eventuality.”

“Rather poorly,” Loki mumbled, looking around the room which yielded nothing of interest—save for the location of the door.

Now that he was more fully awake and wearing better glamour, the humiliation of his defeat was making itself sharper—especially since it felt so unjust in nature. He should have _won._ He was clearly the superior warrior here, nearly taking down an entire facility by himself. If not for the silver-armed soldier, he would have mowed down everyone in his path and got back to Asgard in time for dinner.

But somehow he had not expected SHIELD to harbor a second super-soldier—and one who did not hold back his blows, unlike the good Captain. For a split second, Loki had seen only blood and been stung by the fear of dying. It was ludicrous—he’d survived actual decapitation once, after all. Yet he’d been attacked with such savagery that rational thought had fled before animal terror. It had left him nauseous and dizzy, beyond the sheer fact of his physical beating. The Soldier had gotten under his skin. The Soldier had _scared_ him.

Loki’s ribs still ached even now, yet he knew he wouldn’t be long to heal. His dignity, on the other hand, might simply never recover. To get caught by surprise because he’d severely underestimated his enemy—that was the kind of thing that simply didn’t _happen_ to the king of Asgard, or to Loki Laufeyson, let alone the both of them at once. Thank heavens nobody he knew had been around to witness his failure. All he had to do know was to destroy everyone in the building, and no one need ever learn of this little misadventure.

“I’m sorry, did you say we’d prepared poorly? Not from where I’m standing,” Pierce said. “You can test those restraints if you like. They’ll hold.”

Loki had no words to tell that man how much he was boring him. “Yes, well, I’ve been a prisoner of SHIELD before. It did not really stick.”

“This isn’t SHIELD, Mr. Laufeyson.” Another affable smile. “I wanted to personally thank you for throwing yourself into our arms. We’ve wanted to study an Asgardian for a long while.”

“Wonderful. I don’t care.” Loki had a reputation to uphold, damn it—or rather, Odin had. This little joke had gone on long enough. “Goodbye, now.”

Illusions were easy as breathing; shapeshifting required a lot more energy, but Loki was fueled by sheer annoyance. The steel restraints which had been pressing down on his limbs with hydraulic force suddenly snapped on nothing; a snake slithered out of the chair and between Pierce’s legs to wiggle under the door and into the hallway.

The silver-armed soldier was right there, standing guard.

Loki’s thoughts of escape screeched to a halt. For a moment—to his shame—all he felt was fear, and an insane impulse to retreat back into the room from whence he’d come. But then he doubled down on his own foolishness and stoked the fire of his humiliation. He needed flames of wrath to fuel him now. Before he left, he needed his revenge on that man. Let it not be said that one could humiliate the God of Chaos and walk away. Let it not be said, either, that Loki would meet an enemy he truly dreaded, and miss his chance of destroying him once and for all.

As soon as he saw the snake coming for him, the Soldier pulled out a gun and fired without hesitation. Loki could weather bullets, but they stung all the same and only furthered his rage. His body grew thicker with muscle and sinew, until it was as heavy as a tree branch; poisonous fangs pierced the roof of his mouth, leaking green venom. Slithering forward, he wrapped himself around the man’s leg and went up his body, coiling around him, tightening like a single muscle around a bone. The man fought with considerable strength, but this time Loki expected it and could match it. His victim made no sound when Loki constricted his body around him; not even when the bones snapped in his right arm, with a shockingly clear crunching noise. He made no sound either when Loki opened his mouth wide and sank his fangs into his neck, finding a vein.

Loki had been bitten by such a snake in his youth; the pain had paralyzed him for three days. The man’s left hand, the silver-steel one, clamped around Loki’s head and _squeezed._

Loki convulsed. His victim should be writhing and howling in pain by now. And he _was_ in pain—Loki  could feel his muscles jerking as the venom spread in his veins, feverish sweat bathing his skin under his armored clothes, flesh turning black and blistered around the puncture marks, but he remained still eerily _silent._ He was focused on killing Loki with single-minded intensity, burning eyes fixed on him, even as he gasped for breath when his throat started to close.

“Good job, Soldier,” said Pierce’s voice above him.

Then ten thousand volts exploded into Loki’s body and everything went dark.

 

*

 

So this really was _not_ SHIELD, Loki mused when he awakened.  

Something else, then, masquerading as SHIELD. A darker, clandestine organization festering inside their ranks. Usually, Loki would have applauded such a thing; clandestine festering was what he was _about_. But the tremors still running through his limbs made him more furious than anything else. Felled twice in a row by the same damn enemy. Today was getting more humiliating by the minute.

And scared. Yes. He was scared.

Something had been off about their fight. Loki had nearly killed the Soldier; then Pierce had come out and—presumably finished the job, shocking both of them into unconsciousness when his own warrior was on the brink of defeat already. This callous treatment of a most formidable weapon was what puzzled Loki the most. Or did that mean the Soldier could easily weather it? Was he even stronger than Loki had previously accounted for?

Maybe this revenge business wasn’t such a good idea after all. The joke was truly not funny anymore; and besides, he needed to go back to Asgard before people started wondering where Odin had gone. Cracking his eyes open, he cast a look around and realized that he was strapped to an operating table.

He took a deep breath, then let it out. This scared him less than a fight to the death. As long as he had room to speak, nothing could _truly_ scare him. He eyed the instruments next to him. Scalpels, clamps, retractors. A bone saw. When he glanced down, he saw that the table had not been hastily been put together for him; those kind of restraints were obviously standard issue, sleek and shining. All patients here were expected to struggle.

Loki strained his eyes again. There was something else, objects in translucent boxes lining up on a shelf; when he realized what it was, a shiver ran through him. Not objects, but limbs—bits and pieces of a Chitauri warrior. It must have been cut up after the battle, post-mortem, but that did not make Loki feel any better.

He glanced down at his restraints. They hummed with power. More shocks if he tried to shapeshift again. It made him want to wrinkle his nose. He’d grown up with _Thor_ as a brother—did they truly think he knew not how to handle electrical punishment?

Just then, Pierce came into the room, followed by a couple of men in white coats.

“Ah, there you are,” he said when he saw Loki, as if he hadn’t put him there himself. “You know, it’s funny. We tried to shave your hair for cranial inspection, but it didn’t work.”

“Nobody can change anything to my appearance,” Loki informed him. “But me.” _And Odin,_ but that was fairly irrelevant.

Piece gave him a truly sinister smile. “With your permission, I’ll take that as a challenge.” His hand was resting dangerously close to the bone saw. “Any last words before we begin the procedure?”

 _“Last_ words?” Loki said, producing a smile.

The scientists paused. They must be more accustomed to sobs and pleas.

“And here I thought you’d come to tell me to start talking,” Loki went on, never looking away from Pierce.

Pierce raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Don’t play dumb,” Loki said, on a roll now. “You know what I’m getting at.” He pulled at his restraints for emphasis, though not too hard, lest he got shocked again. Just because he could handle it did not mean he _enjoyed_ it. “If this little circus was meant to impress me, well, all right, I’ll admit it: you’ve succeeded. Whatever you want from me, ask away. And I know you _must_ have a few things to task. Be assured, if your goal is to create more chaos on Midgard, that’s something I’ve always enjoyed.”

Pierce smiled again, without the slightest hint of warmth.

“That much is true. Thank you for your offer. I’ll gladly take it.” He put a hand on Loki’s thigh and looked him in the eye. “But I’m afraid you’ll be staying on the table anyway.”

 

*

 

It was not a comfortable few hours.

Loki was drained for his blood while he was drained for information; he had to focus and keep talking, without allowing his voice to waver, even when they ripped out all the nails of his right hand to put in separate glass vials. When he showed himself slow or reluctant, he was shocked again. When he became too impatient at this treatment, he was shocked again. After the first few times, he made an effort to remain polite and submissive even through immense pain. He succeeded for a while, but the mischief in him didn’t make it easy, and he screamed a few more times before the session was over. When they began to pack up their tools of tortures, he was softly sobbing on the table. Let them not think he hadn’t suffered—he had, and it was easier not to pretend.

“Well, that’ll be all for today,” Pierce finally concluded. “We do need some marrow from you, so the bone saw will _have_ to come into play tomorrow, I’m sorry to say.” He got up and patted Loki’s thigh again. “But you’ve gained a night of rest. Enjoy it.”

Loki was in too much pain to think of a quip. The room went dark and silent, except for the buzz of the electric current running through his restraints.

He swallowed, thick and painful, with the taste of iron in his mouth. His sobs were subsiding already. He exhaled deeply, trying to relax his limbs, but a great ache was running in close circuit inside his body, in time with the pulse of his heart. His right hand was throbbing with pain, and he was light-headed with blood loss. That had certainly not been the most pleasant bout of interrogation he’d ever gone through, but he’d succeeded in his goal: being left alone, unsupervised, and most importantly _awake,_ for the first time since he’d entered this place.

No snakes this time. Loki took the time to regrow his nails; then he took a bracing breath, held it, and shapeshifted his skin into rubber.

It was not pleasant, aesthetically or otherwise, but when the restraints tried to shock him it did nothing at all. With a burst of strength, he ripped free from the table, got up and staggered away from it.

An alarm instantly started wailing overhead, but at the moment he could not care less. Shedding his horrible rubber skin, he went back to himself and stood there, trying to get some air into his lungs. This twisted, dark SHIELD had proved themselves to be efficient people, and without a tendency to underestimate their captives either—so Loki wasn’t surprised when the door opened on the Soldier again, only a few seconds later.

This time, he was a better master of the stab of fear in his stomach. More armored guards were taking point in the hallway behind him.

“You’ve managed to put me in a truly awful mood,” Loki told him, still breathless.

The Soldier did not speak, just stared blankly. There was nothing at all behind his eyes.

On their first fight, he’d won through sheer brutality, bearing down with relentless violence on Loki until he’d pummeled him into unconsciousness. That much was intimidating enough; but on their second fight, he’d proven he had just as little respect for himself. No amount of pain and injury, it seemed, could stand in the way of his mission. Loki was seldom unsettled by his enemies, but the Soldier hardly even deserved that title. Could a mindless animal be an enemy? Could a soulless storm be an enemy? Somehow they’d managed to carve him out like a crab, take out what makes a man, and make a weapon instead.

On any other day, Loki would have been impressed. Perhaps envious—he’d desired mindless servants for himself, after all. But that had been during his darkest hour, and remembering what he’d done to Barton only brought him faint shame now that he was staring at this new, horrible version of a slave. Besides, he was exhausted and aching, longing for peace and comfort. There was no battle of wits to be had; an empty soul was a poor audience for his usual flair. He just wanted to kill the Soldier, once and for all, and then burn this place to the ground so he could leave at long damned _last._

So he went for a fire spell—ironically enough, he was the God of Fire, too, something too many people forgot, and his fire was born from his rage and horror.

The blazing wave washed across the room with a monstrous roar. The Soldier was quick enough to dive aside; but his back-up men were not, and screeched in demented agony when the inferno flowed over them, melting the very flesh from their bones. Loki brought up his arms, conjuring twin wings of fire, which he threw forward again. The Soldier did not seem to mind the loss of his allies, or even notice their gruesome end—he didn’t pause, just dropped and rolled and pulled a gun to shoot at Loki. He had supernatural aim, but Loki had supernatural resistance and was marching towards him, haloed in fire, truly furious now.

“So fire does not agree with you,” he snarled. “What of ice?”

He hated tapping into his Jotnar powers, but nobody here would live to tell the tale. His fire might rise from rage, but his ice rose from hatred—for himself, for others. He certainly harbored enough hatred now. He threw a hand towards the ceiling; ice rose from the ground and trapped the Soldier’s legs. Incredibly, he was strong enough to shatter it and switch weapons. Behind him, the facility was burning with ever higher flames, the air shimmering with heat. He fired at Loki again; this time the bullets were heavy enough to wound him, leaving deep gashes across his cheek. That was the last _straw._ Snarling, Loki threw both his hands up; another swirl of ice trapped the Soldier’s legs, growing thick and fast enough to stop him, and then layered into enough of a crushing weight that _both_ his tibia snapped.

He didn’t scream—didn’t even stumble, just used the casing of ice to keep standing up and _kept firing._ Loki took another bullet to the shoulder, but it would be the last one, because he was still moving forward and the Soldier could escape him no longer. Loki slammed the weapon out of his hands, then hit him with such strength that the Soldier was ripped from his ice trap and flew across the room to hit the opposite wall.

Something cracked; he slid to the floor and did not get up again.

There. Loki stood, panting, nauseated. He too could fight like a mindless brute, when he really did _try_. The Soldier’s nose and brow had split on impact, and blood was bathing his face. Incredibly enough, he was not unconscious, merely stunned.

But by the time he shook off his dizziness, it was too late; ice was slithering up again, pinning him spread-eagle to the floor, growing and thickening like a mold. For the first time, there was fear on his face. Fear of more pain, maybe, more crushed bones—right he was, too; in that moment Loki was horribly tempted to shatter every part of his body and listen to him scream.

The Soldier struggled and scowled and strained, but he was not going anywhere. It would take more than fire to melt Jotun ice; once hardened, it was like diamond.

“End of the line,” Loki breathed. He summoned a blade in his hand.

Something changed on the Soldier’s face. His struggles slowed, then stopped altogether. He just lay there and waited, breathing fast, but silent.

This didn’t agree with Loki, who snarled at him. “Go on. Beg me to spare your life.”

He’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t waste time on histrionics again, and yet there he was. The laboratory was burning in earnest now. If he waited any longer, he would not be able to cross the barrier of his own flames, and the irony would probably kill him before the fire did.

But the Soldier would not beg. His features had slackened again. He looked younger, that way. For the first time, he looked _human._ He had lost, he was about to die, and there _was_ a trace of fear on his face, but also—what was this? _Longing?_

A shiver raced up Loki’s spine again. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more to do with this cursed creature—this beaten, tortured animal waiting wordlessly to burn. Well then, let him burn. Let him scream like the others had screamed. Loki turned away and the Soldier watched him leave, still without begging, or calling, or saying anything at all—but _watching_ him, every second.

Loki tried to cross the wall of flames, but had to stand back and curse himself for the third time on this wretched day. It had actually happened: the flames had grown beyond his control. He had been overzealous in his fury, and now he’d barred the only exit he knew. Sighing exasperatedly, he suddenly lost an inner fight he hadn’t even been aware to be waging.

“Fine. Fine. Damn it to Hel.” He melted the ice off the Soldier’s limbs. “Up! Show me how to get out of here.”

Surprise flitted over the Soldier’s face for a moment. Then, slowly, painfully, he rolled to his side and tried to stand despite his broken legs—and almost _managed,_ which made something heave in Loki’s stomach. Cursing again, he reached for him and helped him up, throwing the silver arm over his shoulders. The Soldier didn’t seem like he was all there anymore; he was watching the flames like they reminded him of something—and like they weren’t about to engulf him.

“Damn it, man, keep your head. Is there another exit or not?”

“Yes.” The Soldier retreated from his reverie; he looked at Loki with a hint of emotionless calculation in his eye, like he was pondering whether to attack him again. Blood was still flooding his face. On his neck were the marks from Loki’s snake-fangs, black and swollen. He must _still_ be in pain from the venom—not to mention his dozen broken bones. “I…”

 _“Show me,”_ Loki insisted in disbelief. “And we’ll finish fighting then, if that’s your wish.”

The Soldier ducked his head and licked the blood off his lips. “That door over there,” he mumbled.

Loki turned to it. The door in question was standing in the middle of the room, in a frame made of a curious, silver metal, scratched all over with engravings.

“It’s an exit?”

“It’s a portal.” His eyes closed, and his head lolled onto Loki’s shoulder. He must be close to passing out. “So, yes.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments make me stroke my nonexistent moustache.


	2. Bucky

 

 

 

 

 

The Soldier woke up on his own, which was enough for him to know instantly something wasn’t right. Usually, there was always someone or something pulling him from sleep. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d be left to awaken naturally—though of course he couldn’t recall much of anything. But he knew. He sensed.

He took a deeper breath, waited to see if anything happened to him, and only then opened his eyes to look around. He was in an odd, spherical room, with the walls made of blue ice like he was under a glacier. Yet he wasn’t cold; a fire crackled in a hearth-like cranny. Somehow the ice wasn’t melting. This, fire and ice together, tugged at something in his memory.

Glancing down, he saw that he was bare-chested, vulnerable to attacks; but otherwise not restrained nor plugged into anything. No IV lines either. He felt there should have been blood on his skin, but he had been wiped clean.

“You’re awake,” snapped someone on the other side of the room. “Wonderful.”

The Soldier pushed on his elbows to sit up; as he did, the memory of the previous hours came back to him. The newcomer was Loki, having just entered the igloo, looking as clean and sharp as though they’d never fought at all.

 _Subdue,_ said Pierce’s voice in the Soldier’s head. _Terminate if necessary._ The Soldier was in no state to kill a god, even one of Mischief. The excuse was acceptable to himself; hopefully it’d be good enough for HYDRA if they found him before he could complete his mission. _Terminate_ seemed necessary indeed. He had to bide his time for now.

Loki dropped an armful of chopped wood next to the fire and sat on the floor with a groan.

The Soldier shifted cautiously. His right arm, broken the day before, had healed; the venom’s fire had abated, the puncture marks faded to nothing. Both his legs were still broken, though the pain had settled into an angry itch of knitting bones. He still probably couldn’t stand if he tried. The rest of his wounds were inconsequential.

The fact that he hadn’t been restrained, chemically, physically or otherwise, was bothering him. Perhaps being in this place was enough for him to be under some sort of magical yoke? It didn’t feel like it. But he didn’t know much about magic at all.

“Where are we?” he asked.

This was only to see if he’d get an answer—or any reaction whatsoever. For a moment, it seemed he wouldn’t get anything, but then Loki snorted inelegantly.

“I have no idea. It was _your_ portal, and it closed behind us.” He seemed in a foul mood. “We’re in some place with ice and snow and trees. Still on Earth, I assume—which is no good news to me at all.”

Lost in the wilderness. The Soldier was calmed by that thought. This meant at least a few hours of rest before HYDRA found him. Looking at himself again, he saw the ice formed an elevated pallet underneath his body, with his own jacket for a bedding. It occurred to him that this entire place must be Loki’s doing. He was some sort of ice creature, after all. But why include the Soldier in his shelter?

Just then, as he’d lowered his guard by a fraction, was when Loki made his move.

“Now—your turn to talk.” He got up. “Don’t fight and this will hurt less.”

The Soldier was trained to react in a split second against any attack, but Loki managed not to trigger his reflexes by not attacking him at all—he just reached out to press his hand to the Soldier’s forehead. For an infinitesimal moment, he didn’t understand—and then the shock nearly pushed his soul out of his body.

Almost immediately, Loki reared back like he’d burned himself. _“Hel!_ Was that—” He seemed almost outraged, clutching at his hand. _“Static?”_

The room was spinning nauseatingly fast; the Soldier heard static, yes, in his ears, and saw it, too, eating at the edges of his sight, and there were voices and images twirling in his head, too fast for him to latch onto them, and he wanted to stop them but didn’t know how, and he felt like the inside of his skull had collapsed onto itself, pushing shards of bone into his brain, and the urge to throw up rose but he pushed it back, swallowing bile, and closed his eyes, and tried to calm down, _calm down—_

Loki was stepping closer again, still looking half-angry but also very much intrigued, reaching for him. The Soldier shied from his hand, pushing his back against the wall. “No. No.”

“Oh, so _this_ you fear,” Loki said with a hint of raillery. “Not flame, not ice, not even venom and agony. But your own mind?” His eyes narrowed. “This is not the Mind Stone’s work. It would be neater.”

The Soldier still wanted very much to throw up. He should have been ready, but he hadn’t been prepared for torture, and certainly not that kind. He tried again to slow down his breathing. Now that he knew, it would be easier to stand the pain, if it came to that. Standing the pain was the one thing he could do, at the end, when there was nothing else to be done.

Loki was staring at him. “What’s your name?”

The Soldier glanced up at him, shivering, and didn’t answer.

“Your name. Tell me your name.”

The Soldier made an effort to stop shaking and glare back. A smirk stretched Loki’s lips. “You don’t _know._ You don’t remember it. Do you? Everything’s in your head is in bits and pieces.”

So he’d seen _inside_ the Soldier’s head. That was what it had been; he’d tried turning his mind inside out like a glove. Swallowing again, the Soldier flexed his thigh to check for his knife, and felt a reassuring hard line in return. He was in no state for terminating his target—but he’d have to try anyway.

When Loki reached for him again, the Soldier was ready—shoved himself to his feet, slipped out the blade and stabbed in a wide arc. He’d aimed for the neck, but his broken bones failed to completely hold his weight despite his efforts to compensate with sheer muscle strength, and his blade went clear through the god’s hand instead—he’d raised it in instinctive defense. Loki gave a short scream of pain and anger; he was a warrior too, with training, and he mastered himself almost at once.

He twisted his hand free and stepped back, away from range. Breathing hard through his nose, he pulled the knife from his hand, which made him clench his jaw. The Soldier’s legs wanted to give out; the pain was giving him tunnel vision. Loki shoved him in the chest with his bloodied hand, which was enough for him to fall sitting on the pallet.

He was bracing for the knife, for instant death, but nothing came. The god just stared at him, nostrils flaring. Something wasn’t right. The Soldier had been told to expect mindless carnage from him. Why was he holding back?

Loki dropped the knife and grabbed him by the throat with his wounded hand.

“No—” the Soldier tried to push him away when he saw his raised fingers, _“no—”_

But Loki was too strong and pressed his other hand against the Soldier’s forehead again. A swirl of images and sounds threatened to engulf the Soldier for the second time; his eyes rolled back in his head, the images started unreeling like an insane amount of simultaneous movies, all blurring together, but— _wipe him,_ said Pierce, and Loki reared back again.

The Soldier’s ears were ringing from his own scream, and his breath was coming out in fast-paced gasps, he’d pulled out his second knife to defend himself, without even realizing it, without even remembering if he’d attacked or not. Loki wasn’t bloodier than before, but he’d blanched noticeably.

“Electricity,” he mumbled to himself. “I see. Clever, I suppose. Efficient. Yes. A brute’s work, of course. But your species—” He paused, then scowled at the blade in the Soldier’s hand. “Give me that!”

The Soldier obeyed; it seemed wiser, because right then he couldn’t fight a child if he tried. Loki, still very pale, tossed the blade into the fire. Then he slicked his hair back with his uninjured hand.

After a moment to compose himself, he exhaled bracingly. “All right, strip. I’ve had enough of your knives, and I can’t suppose you’ll be hard on the eyes anyway.”

Something twisted in the Soldier’s stomach. But if rape was on the table, he could turn it to his advantage, so he obeyed again. His clothing was designed against it—his strapjacket was nearly impossible for him to remove by himself, but Loki had already taken care of it. His pants and boots were more accessible. He had to be careful because of his broken bones, but he managed.

When he was done, he could see that his body was a mess of burns and bruises. There was a bloody handprint square in the middle of his chest where Loki had pushed him. The pain of his broken bones rumbled under his skin like a swarm of trapped wasps. He tried to shut it out, but the worst of it was in his head, swelling into an awful migraine. Despite himself, he was quietly terrified of this cold hand pressing on his forehead again. Pain he could stand, but what was in his head was worse than pain.

Loki seemed calmer now; green energy was working in his hand, healing the cut. A twirl of his fingers summoned a bearskin. “Cover yourself.”

With a faint sense of relief, the Soldier draped it over his shoulders and closed it around his body. It was thick and heavy and incredibly warm. His head ached, and he was feeling very tired all of a sudden, like he was at the end of a long journey. Maybe because there was a fair chance Loki would kill him before HYDRA found them. Yet at the same time, it seemed so unlikely. HYDRA always found him. It was one of the things he just knew, like reading or throwing a knife.

In any case, this was the end of him. He had lived through his own end so many times before.

The blade Loki had taken from him was reddening in the flames. The Soldier could grab it with his left hand. Or even with his right, if it came to that. He might be wounded, but that did not make him helpless. And he had a mission. He never stopped until he’d completed his mission. Besides, Loki seemed to be lowering his guard ever since he’d burrowed into his mind for the second time; he still hadn’t restrained Bucky, and didn’t seem intent on raping him after all—

The Soldier stopped.

Who the hell was _Bucky?_

“And why did you fools have a conjunction portal in your basement, anyway?” Loki kept mumbling, mostly to himself. “Now that we've used it, I reckon it’s gone for good. Where did it lead? Do you happen to know?”

The Soldier just looked at Loki, who rolled his eyes.

“No, of course, you won’t willingly tell me that. Very well.” He ran a hand through his raven hair again. “On a normal day, I’d use the Bifrost. But I cannot use it because I am Odin and Odin is supposed to be on Asgard. _Gods.”_ He sat by the fire; green light ate away his cape until it was gone, presumably so he’d be more comfortable. “To Hel with all this. I’ve just been tortured for a day straight. I’m taking a break.”

The Soldier looked into the fire. The blade was turning white, now. If he wanted to grab it and stab Loki, he had to do it soon. But the flames mesmerized him until he almost forgot what he wanted to do in the first place, and when he snapped  back to the present, the knife was blackened and brittle. It was too late to do anything.

 

*

 

Loki left the igloo after a while, but didn’t go far—the Soldier could hear his boots crunching in the snow, just outside.

He waited for a while, then gave an experimental push on his hands to get up, and managed without too much trouble. His bones had healed, but they were still fragile; if he fought Loki now they’d re-break at once. He still couldn’t understand why he wasn’t restrained in any way. Or drugged, or otherwise enthralled. Being underestimated didn’t often happen to him, certainly not several times in a row by the same enemy. But maybe this was a matter of pride for a being who claimed to be a god. Whatever the reason, Bucky could turn it to his advantage.

 _Bucky._ It was the second time he gave himself that name. Not that it rang any other bells; it just tolled by itself in his empty mind, awakening no echoes. This modest bit of knowledge made him restless. He knew he wasn’t supposed to remember too much; whatever he knew could be interrogated out of him. He knew he had to be a weapon; he knew he couldn’t be a person. He accepted that. If a wipe had to be scheduled when HYDRA found him again, it would be his own fault.

He shrugged on his jacket over his bare torso, without fastening the straps, and ducked out of the igloo.

His breath plumed in front of him. The igloo overlooked a breathtaking mountain vista of ice and layered stone, under the crisp, blue arch of a cloudless sky. A line of black pine trees started a little further down the slope; a few birds of prey were circling the great expanse of the valley below. Bucky exhaled again. He didn’t know for sure where they were, but this looked a lot like the Canadian Rockies.

A movement the edge of the igloo called his attention. He made his way around the curve of blue ice and stopped short. Loki was there, looking over the landscape, casting wisps of green light which didn’t seem to do anything. Probably looking for their missing way home. His black hair trickled smoothly down his back, and his green-and-black leather clothes somehow fit perfectly with the breathtaking scenery. The line of his profile was sharp and striking; his eyes clear as ice water.

An arrogant, minor, flawed god. But a god for sure, all the same, with outlandish beauty and magic in his fingertips.

Bucky felt that bone-deep fatigue weigh on him again, without warning.

“Why haven’t you killed me?” he said.

The sound of his own voice in the mountain quiet shocked him, but if Loki was startled, he didn’t show it. He didn’t even turn to look at him. “Because there’s no need.”

Pride. The Soldier could work with that. Killing Loki wouldn’t be easy, and the task exhausted him in advance. But if he managed it then he could go back into the ice, and rest for a long while. All he ever really longed for was rest.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments make me bat my eyelashes Jeff Goldblum-style.


	3. Loki

 

 

 

 

 

Loki expected the Soldier to make a move during the night and wasn’t disappointed.

The man must have healed—or else gotten even better at mastering his pain, because he was quick and brutal just like on the first day. The real surprise was that he’d figured out the Loki sleeping next to him was an illusion; he attacked the right spot of seemingly empty floor, which meant Loki had to wrestle him in a rather undignified way. A glittering knife missed his jugular by an inch, which made him huff in consternation.

“Where do you keep _getting_ those?”

The Soldier didn’t answer—he was still bare-chested under his open jacket, and his brown hair clung to his face with sweat. It was fairly cold in the igloo; he shouldn’t have been sweating, or shaking, for that matter, but he looked ill and there was a feverishness to his attack that hadn’t been there before. Instead of going through the trouble of pushing him away, Loki simply grabbed his wrists, locked their legs together, and trapped him on top of him, with the knife shaking close to his throat.

The Soldier struggled, but couldn’t break free. For a while he stayed there, breathing quick in Loki’s ear, with the full weight of his body on top of him. This fight had taken a strangely intimate turn. He was shivering in earnest in Loki’s grip, because of—sheer muscle strain, and maybe some kind of withdrawal, but the biggest factor was _fear,_ Loki realized. He wasn’t afraid of Loki, that much was obvious. But he was in a state of utter terror all the same, because he’d failed, and kept failing, at his one mission.

“You’re scared of what they’ll do to you,” Loki realized.

The Soldier swallowed thickly, like he was about to be sick. “Shut up.”

Loki always liked hearing those words, because they meant he’d hit a nerve, and he liked the Soldier’s style more and more—no bluster, no boasting, just silent assassinations attempts in the middle of the night. Elegant, deadly, mercifully silent. Finally, an enemy without tediousness. And an enemy that deserved the name, now—the Soldier was _far_ from being an empty crab. He was something far more horrifying, like all his organs had been ripped out of him and then stuffed back in without rhyme or reason.

“All those shocks to your brain,” Loki went on, still straining to match the Soldier’s strength, deadlocking him in his embrace. “This isn’t just about obedience, or they would have replaced this butchering with the Mind Stone. They also want to torture you. Break you. Remind you you can’t ever escape them.”

“Shut up—”

Loki shoved him away so brutally he slammed into the other wall; he could hear all the Soldier’s air leave his lungs.

“All right.” Ice sprang from the floor and walls to restrain the Soldier again. “Enough games, enough hiding. Prepare yourself. This time I’m not stopping.”

The Soldier started fighting in earnest against the ice, sensing the violation to come. It was no use; for the third time, Loki put his hand on his forehead.

He shoved his way in, ignoring his own pain—and it was considerable, trapped as he was in the turmoil of the Soldier’s confusion and distress. But at least he could parse out those feelings—the static had cleared; the Soldier’s thoughts were a tangled mess of barbed wire, but they were _thoughts_. His mind was healing.

Another reason for his handlers to torture him—because if left alone, he might recover enough to remember who he was. And remember he was their unwilling slave. Maybe even _their_ enemy.

Despite himself, Loki felt a twinge of empathy. As the son of the Jotun King, he had been deceived about his allegiance, his origins, his very nature; but this man had them _ripped_ from him with extreme prejudice. He’d been kept like an animal—not just a tool, like Loki had been, but something to belittle, to torment, to humiliate, so his captors could be comforted every day in their victory.

He was screaming now, struggling and straining and _screaming_ as Loki forced him to power through the memory of a thousand electric shocks, gritting his teeth to fight his own nausea, looking for the one thing—

 _“JAMES!”_ the Soldier screamed. “James, James Buchanan Barnes, please, Jesus Mary and Joseph, please stop, for the love of God, please stop, stop, _stop—”_

Loki stepped back just in time for the Soldier to turn his head and throw up with shock. He was panting and shaking like a racehorse, bathed in his own sick and sweat. With a twitch of his fingers, Loki let his restraints vanish. He was feeling ill, too. The Soldier curled up on himself, still shaking like a leaf, gasping with tears.

After a moment to catch his own breath, Loki grabbed his metal arm and pulled him to his feet to drag him outside. The Soldier was too weak to fight him, still reeling with the shock of a thousand echoes of torture. He flinched when the night air hit him, but did nothing to keep Loki from taking his clothes off. When he was naked, he didn’t try to cover himself or shy from whatever Loki meant to do to him now. This, almost more than the rest, worsened Loki’s nausea.

“Wash yourself,” Loki said quietly. He gave him a small push which made him stumble into the snow bank.

The Soldier kept going, naked, until he stumbled again and fell to his knees. With mechanical gestures, he grabbed fistfuls of snow, spread them on his arms and chest, crushed them over his skin until they melted between his fingers, washing off the grime.

The cold seemed to help. By the time he was done, his hands almost weren’t shaking. At last, he looked up at Loki.

His body was solid and strong, with old, almost invisible scars stretching on his sickly pale skin. Snow melted in trickles over his chest. His eyes, clearwater in the middle of his pale face, were very striking; his hair was almost as dark as Loki’s, soaked with melted snow, hanging heavy. Loki’s eyes followed the sharp line of his jaw, traced a droplet of water, then the shadow of a collarbone. He caught himself thinking the Soldier probably fucked like he fought: relentless, efficient, single-minded. As to whether he was the kind of enemy one _could_ fuck, he’d probably have to wait and see.

For the moment, the Soldier looked still unaware of his own nudity; but there was a new clarity to his eyes, like he’d broken free of an endless nightmare—and waiting to see if he’d landed somewhere worse.

“Hello, James,” Loki said, after another deep breath. “It’s nice to meet you.”

 

*

 

Back in the igloo, Loki gave him the bearskin again. Then he boiled some water, if only so they’d have something to busy their hands with. His own thoughts were still reeling from his intrusion in James’ mind, like he’d burned himself after rummaging through red embers.

James accepted his cup with a frown and gazed into it like he was looking for his own reflection. He was still shivering, very faintly, and his frost bath had brought some faint color to his cheeks.

“I’ll ask again,” he said after a while. His voice was tired and low. “Why haven’t you killed me?”

“I’m not the God of Death. I just have a temper, sometimes.” Loki drank some of his hot water. “Why haven’t _you_ killed me?”

“Ain’t for lack of trying.” His accent was slightly different. Recovering his name seemed to have broken a dam in his head. “You should get away. From me. I think I…”

He was silent for a long time. When he spoke again, his voice had withered even more.

“I think I’m lost.”

Loki huffed through his nose. He was lost, too. On _Midgard,_ to boot. It suddenly hit him that it was probably too late to return to Asgard, wearing Odin’s skin and pretending nothing had happened. The All-Father was past the age of disappearing for days on end.

Weirdly enough, Loki found he didn’t really mind. Hel, he’d almost forgotten all about Asgard over the past twenty-four hours. If anything—yes—he was relieved.

Well, he should probably consider himself lucky none of his other grand schemes had ever worked out; who knew what kind of eternal boredom he might have trapped himself into? Failing, now, _there_ was an excellent way to keep things moving and to meet new people. Like the haunted man sitting in front of him now.

“Well,” Loki said. “Getting lost happens to the best of us. Like me, once. I had all sorts of dictatorial delusions. But I like to think I got better.”

“I have to leave here,” James said, seemingly without listening to him at all. “They know where the portal leads. They’ll come get me.”

“So kill them,” Loki said, ever one to offer a pragmatic solution.

“I _can’t._ I should…” James glanced at him with a sudden resurgence of his steel-cold glare, as if about to change his mind and attack again; then he scowled and shook his head. “No. No. Just—get away. I’m leaving.”

“You cannot presume to last very long on your own.”

James completely ignored him—again—and got up, taking the bearskin off his shoulders to roll it tight. There was determination in his eyes, but not the fanatic drive of before; it was mixed with a fairly human anxiety this time. He reached for his soiled clothes which he’d left at the entrance of the igloo, but Loki made them vanish with a gesture.

“Come now, have you seen the state of them? This is for your own good, believe me.”

James glanced at him—just a quick glance to confirm Loki wasn’t joking. He didn’t seem surprised; he didn’t even seem angry, as if the injustice didn’t register as such. He didn’t protest or bargain, just left the igloo without looking back.

Loki opened his mouth, changed his mind, got to his feet and followed him out. “Now hold on just one minute—”

James was already walking away, straight down the steep side of the mountain, between the frozen rocks, going for the tree line. He was barefoot in the snow, and his pale body was turning pink with cold. Loki had honestly expected to stop being impressed by the Soldier after he snapped out of his thrall, but the complete opposite was happening. He cursed under his breath and went after him.

“You cannot be serious.” He reached for the metal arm. “Are you truly going to—”

James shook him off. “I’m not waiting here for them.”

“So you’d rather climb down a mountain naked,” Loki called after him.

“Yes.” His voice was perfectly flat.

Loki met his eyes for a long second.

Strands of green light wrapped around James’ body. He flinched—then blinked when he found himself clothed in thick winter garments, trousers and a hooded coat, made of silvery-white suede lined with black fur on the inside. His outfit was complete with matching leather snow boots, and of course a pair of gloves. Loki had always liked to design clothing for whoever walked with him, even when Thor made no effort to appreciate his disguises.

“Seems a shame to cover you up, but there you go.”

James was obviously waiting for his new clothes to harm him in some way. When this failed to happen, he cast a wary glance towards Loki, who raised his eyebrows, expectant.

“You know I’m meant to kill you,” James eventually said, in his quiet voice.

“So I gathered, yes.” Loki gave him a smirk. “Why not let them assume you have?”

James frowned by a fraction. He said nothing more, just listened. Loki liked this man more and more.

“They’re coming for you,” he elaborated. “They’ll expect to find you either alone, or engaged in fighting me. In these mountains, with the element of surprise? There’s your opportunity to massacre them all.” Loki grinned. “Especially if I lend you a hand.”

James’ brown hair moved in the mountain breeze. He had truly extraordinary eyes, grey-blue with deep lines around them, looking so much older that his young bowed mouth. “Why?”

“Because I have a bloody loathing for them. Because I’m bored. Because this is what I do best,” Loki said, counting on his fingers. “Take your pick.”

James was silent for a long moment.

“I tried to escape before.” He winced. “I think. But they always find me and—”

He looked away and trailed off, which was probably for the best; Loki didn’t really want to know how that sentence ended. He’d seen enough in the bits and pieces fragmenting the Soldier’s brain. And that was just the mind—he tried not to think about the deep scarring around his metal arm, where it had obviously been fused into the flesh. He tried not to think either of the operating table he’d been strapped on, obviously made for restraining an enhanced being on the regular.

“Ah, but I was not there all those times before,” he said. “You’ll see—I’m excellent at derailing all and any plans around me.”

The faintest shadow of a smile touched James’ lips, which elated Loki in ridiculous proportions. He needed nothing more than this sparkling feeling of interest in his chest—the exact opposite of boredom; something new and challenging for him to exercise his sense of strategy, and to enact vengeance on those who’d harmed him. So that was that. They were going to war.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Bucky

 

 

 

 

 

The first thing Loki asked him was when HYDRA would find them.

The night was crisp and clear, with bright cold stars; it was enough for Bucky to guess where they were with more certainty—Canada, indeed—which gave him an idea of how far away from base he was. He had to take the lab fire into account, think of how long it’d take for them to regroup and send a strike team. Pierce was nothing if not efficient.

A day. Two at most. No more.

“Excellent.” Without his cape and helmet, Loki was hiking through the forest with the ease of habit. His breathing didn’t fog in the cold. “Now all we need is a deer or a mountain goat. I hope you’re a good hunter.”

Bucky supposed he was. Hunting beasts could only be easier than hunting people. He wasn’t at his best—his body had only just healed, and his head still hurt so much he saw spots fleeing in the corner of his eyes. But he had his name back. _James Buchanan Barnes._ He said it again and again in his head, half-hoping it might stick for good. _James Buchanan Barnes._

Loki was walking ahead. Bucky knew he should have killed him. Amidst the confused haze of his mind, it was the one thing he knew for sure—and maybe it _was_ the right thing to do. When he thought about how he was disobeying orders, his stomach twisted and he broke out in a cold sweat. But he was confused enough that he couldn’t quite do it. He needed to find out more about himself before he did anything.

If he was being honest with himself, the clothes also played a big part in it. They were warm—naturally—but mostly they were so _comfortable._ The lavish black fur on the inside hugged his bare skin with softest of touches; the white suede on the outside hid him almost perfectly in the snow, but was also beautiful in a purely gratuitous way. His throat kept tightening, which was utter nonsense. It made him long for _something—_ though he would have been hard-pressed to say what exactly. He didn’t remember what he missed. But he missed it so damn much.

He and Loki stopped at the same time, on instinct.

Loki put a finger on his lips, then bade Bucky go around a huge rock formation. He nodded and went, silently breaking off an icicle from the stone to use as a weapon. Black shapes were moving between the trees. Elks, he realized. Loki was advancing on them, having circled around from the other side. He had muted the green and gold on his clothing so the herd wouldn’t spot him. He caught Bucky’s eyes, gestured to a doe and waited for a nod. Then the both of them moved at the same time.

The doe spotted Loki first and bounded towards Bucky, who leapt at her and wrestled her to the ground with all his weight, straining to stay clear of her flailing hooves. He jerked her head back and plunged the icicle into her eye; she died instantly, legs still faintly kicking before she went completely still.

When Bucky looked up, he saw walls of ice around him—they puzzled him at first and then he realized Loki must have erected them to protect him from the fleeing herd. The traces of a stampede could be seen all around him in the snow.

“That’ll do nicely,” Loki said, stepping closer. “Cut off a leg. Here.”

He handed him a gilded dagger. The intricate decoration was useless, but didn’t mess with the balance, and the blade was razor-sharp. Bucky could have done some serious damage with that; maybe even killed Loki, this time, if he was fast enough.

But he knew he wasn’t going to do it, despite the terror still gnawing on his stomach. He put it out of his mind and slipped the blade under the doe’s hind leg. He had to saw at nerve and muscle until he could twist and break the articulation, finally ripping the limb from the carcass. Blood was seeping into the snow, so dark it looked black.

“There’s dinner,” Loki said with satisfaction.

Bucky looked up at him. “Didn’t realize we were hunting for food.”

“Just a bonus. We were hunting for a body. Freshly killed, more or less the right size.”

“The right size?”

“For me,” Loki said.

His fingers twirled in the air, which shimmered with green. Bucky looked down and almost startled. The doe was gone; instead there was a duplicate of Loki lying between them, with blank eyes and a bloody mouth. Bucky had seen a lot of death—in fact, he sensed it was nearly all he’d seen, those past few years. But the sight still disturbed him.

“Couldn’t have created it from thin air?” he asked, picking himself up at last, moving away from the pretend corpse.

“The likeness of it, certainly. But the weight and the texture and the smell? Always better to have a real body at hand.” Loki gave him his sharp smile. “Now let’s find a nice little clearing.”

 

*

 

They left the body to rot under the stars and crawled into a second igloo Loki had grown from the ground, just beneath the trees. Bucky took off his soft clothing with a bit of regret—he needed to let it dry—and a lot of discomfort. The exercise hadn’t done his fractures any good.

Loki’s thoughts seemed to follow the same track. “How are your legs?”

“Functional.”

To his surprise, Loki looked heavenwards. “You stoic types are all the same. Let me see.”

He crawled close, put his hands on Bucky’s thighs and squeezed. Green lights seeped from his fingers to bury into the bone. It itched and ached, but that was nothing Bucky couldn’t sit still for. His nudity was a non-event; his handlers often had him undress for maintenance, and his own body felt so detached from himself it could have been a distant star. Being taken care of, in those strange circumstances, meant he could stand the pain of his knitting bones almost without thinking about it. Loki seemed to pick up on it anyway.

“Yes, I know—I never _was_ very good at healing spells. Not exactly my prime interest.”

Bucky’s head still hurt, though it was fainter now, too. The magic in his blood felt like a feverish haze, like the good drugs, like dozing off in a bed of feathers.

“I liked you,” he mumbled. “From the myths.”

Loki paused and looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Norse mythology. All mythologies. I liked that. Read a lot about them.” He spoke without knowing what he was going to say, discovering the words as they fell from his mouth. “You were my favorite. I think.”

Loki kept looking at him for a long while. Then he held out his hand, almost touching Bucky’s forehead. For the first time, he waited for permission.

Bucky didn’t want to give it. He was naked and vulnerable and hurt, and his head was still tender. But he needed—he needed to know. If he was going to fight he needed to be _sure._ Clear out some of the doubt. Otherwise he might change sides during the battle, and kill his only ally.

So he took a deep breath and leaned forward, just enough for his forehead to meet Loki’s palm.

He closed his eyes. This time the pain wasn’t instantaneous; it came slowly, but deeply, like a toothache, until it was all he felt. He tried to hold on against it, screwed his eyes shut, saw blurry shapes and colors, lights and shadows, and then a face—a flash of blue eyes and blond hair. Then arms and a bosom, long dark hair, warmth and love. His mother and love, his sisters and love. A friend and love. So much love it hurt more than the echo of the electrical wipes. He had a life. He’d been someone. He hadn’t been born into HYDRA. He hadn’t ever even _chosen_ them.

Then everything drowned in blood and he realized he’d been pushing Loki’s hand away with trembling fingers and saying “Please, please” between gasps.

There was a complicated emotion on Loki’s face. For a moment, he seemed hesitant to speak. Then he did, in a very low voice.

“We will kill all of HYDRA.” His long fingers wrapped around Bucky’s hands, flesh and metal, and squeezed. “They say vengeance is bitter, but I found it sweet when it finally came. So very sweet. You’ll see.”

 

*

 

Bucky slept under the bearskin. He dreamed in confused fragments, like flashes in a broken mirror. When the morning light woke him up, glowing blue through the igloo walls, he had to sit naked for a while, waiting for the sweat to cool off. He was alone; but just like the last time, he sensed Loki wasn’t far.

After a few minutes, he dressed in his suede and fur clothes—was it normal to love clothes so damn _much?—_ and stepped outside. Loki was grilling elk meat on a skewer, sitting cross-legged in the snow.

“Break your fast,” he said. “They’re here.”

He didn’t seem in any hurry about it, so Bucky just absorbed the information and accepted a bit of roast meat. “How do you know?”

“Crows,” Loki said. “I prefer magpies, but crows will do in a pinch.”

Bucky finished eating, then wiped his mouth with a handful of snow. Just then a crow dashed overhead with a loud caw. Loki raised an eyebrow and just smiled; in the background, the igloo silently melted into nothing, trickling away in the snow.

Minutes later, a whole tactical team crab-walked out of the trees with their weapons cocked and raised. Black like wolves and silent like them, too.

Bucky just waited. His breathing and his heart rate were slowing down. The skewer and the meat were still there, but Loki had vanished from sight, leaving only his own corpse rotting in the snow, the smell now wafting directly towards the newcomers. Bucky angled himself so they would see it.

An insane thought crossed his head—he could surrender now. Pretend he’d been waiting for them, pretend Loki was really dead, pretend he’d completed his mission and no punishment was needed. Willingly go to the chair. Let his name sink under the surface again, where he wouldn’t care about having one at all.

“Report,” demanded the tactical leader. The team had stopped a few paces from Bucky. All of them were aiming at him.

He picked up the skewer and threw it.

This granted him one dead man and a weapon. At the same moment, another man fell with a dagger of ice in his eye. Bucky picked up his gun with one hand while shielding himself with his metal arm. Shots rang clear like crystal bells against the length of his bicep, tearing through his sleeve. A rebounding bullet killed the leader. Bucky’s brain counted in his head. Only six men left. More gunshots ripped through the clearing. Ice daggers flew through the air again. Snow fell from the tree branches. Blood spurted in his face, warm and thick against his chest, fuming in the cold. Only four left. Another fell, and then another, and then another.

And then there was only one. He reached for his comm, but Bucky twisted his neck so nothing would come out.

Loki reappeared just as the body fell in the snow.

“There are more.” Bucky was slightly out of breath, speaking again without knowing how he knew. “That was the scouting team. When they don’t report back, the strike team will move in.”

 “There’s blood all over your clothes,” Loki remarked, sounding mildly annoyed. “White suede really shows the dirt, doesn’t it?”

“We have to…” What? Bucky didn’t even know. “We should…”

It was then that it happened.

A formidable voice rose over the trees, blaring through a speaker maybe several miles away.

_“ZHELANIYE—”_

Bucky felt the stream of his thoughts trickle and dry out.

He took a step back and raised his hands to his ears, but it was no use. The voice boomed over the entire mountain, shaking snow from the branches, blanking his mind.

Suddenly Loki was there, holding onto him so tight it hurt, with his other hand stuck to the Soldier’s forehead, plunging his eyes into the Soldier’s who kept going in and out of focus, trying to fight, giving in, trying again, failing again, in stops and starts. The words kept going, and his thoughts were grinding to a halt, freezing up; Loki’s hand on his forehead generated cracks like the cracks on a frozen lake, ramifying like tree branches, naked branches reaching for an empty sky, roots spreading out in the dirt, looking for water, but there was no water, there was nothing, he was dried out, a husk, retreating into himself with every word exploding in his ears—

Loki took his face between his hands and crushed their mouths together, biting the Soldier’s lip bloody, planting his nails into his temples, scratching, wrestling his consciousness into the moment just for a split second, just so he could breathe, “Fuck me, _fuck me—”_

_“GRUZOVOY WAGON!”_

_“Fuck me,”_ was the order, and then walls of ice rose around them to encase them in a round chamber. Outside, the voice kept going, but the walls were growing thicker by the second so that even that monstrous volume of sound was muffled. The daylight was occulted as well, but another light came on, green and gold, fluttering in mid-air like a will-o’-the-wisp.

 _Fuck me._ The Soldier was not fazed by this order. He was fazed by nothing. He grabbed at leather clothes and ripped them to shreds. There was a hand searing on his forehead. He batted it away with a snarl, but he had to fuck his target so he had to come close again and the hand found him again, lighting up a fire behind his optic nerves. He fumbled with his own clothing, opened it to take it off, but his thoughts were crackling, confusion was mounting. Why was he doing this? Such were his orders. But the orders had been to kill before, so why? And—to fuck an enemy that wasn’t even captive? Loki was breathing hard underneath him, half-naked but focused, with his palm still stuck to Bucky’s forehead, fire and ice, drilling into Bucky’s mind, and _Bucky?_ Who the _hell_ was—

“Christ,” Bucky gasped.

He slowed down and braced on his elbows, hanging his head, breathing heavily. Loki’s hand was still pulling at his memory like a magnet setting a computer on the fritz. Bucky grasped his wrist with his metal hand. “Stop. Stop.”

Loki stopped, and they both gasped in relief. It was painful for him as well—Bucky kept forgetting.

He gathered himself and looked around. If not for Loki’s magic lantern, the darkness would have been complete. If not for their heaving breaths, the silence would have been, too. They were buried under layers and layers of ice and snow, far away from the surface.

“Well,” Loki breathed at last, still pinned underneath him. _“That_ was a surprise.”

“Why…” Bucky’s migraine was so awful he almost couldn’t speak. His body was pulsing, still eager to bury itself in Loki. It was torture not to move his hips. “Why did you say—”

“Your mind turned into a frightful thing,” Loki said. “Craving orders. I couldn’t stop it, but I could at least give you an order before they gave you one. Something aggressive so it would make sense with your training. Something that’d keep you close to me, so I could keep working on your head. _Kill me_ or _beat me_ would not do—I needed to focus, you understand, couldn’t waste time fighting you off.”

Bucky exhaled and hung his head again. He was exhausted and he didn’t know whether he wanted to cry or laugh. The words. Of course he couldn’t remember them before—usually they led to a mind wipe at the end of a mission. Fear tightened his chest. There was no use running. Or even fighting. As long as they had the words, he was theirs.

Just then, Loki pushed up his hips, in a slow grind that pulled more heat to Bucky’s skin. He almost gasped; his hands turned into fists.

“Now,” Loki breathed. “We’re almost nine feet under, and there’s some leftover adrenaline we could put to excellent use.”

Bucky’s body wanted to give in; he resisted the pull and locked eyes with Loki, still breathless. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, but I am.” He was hard through his leathers, and Bucky could feel himself respond with a desperation that threatened to wipe his thoughts again. His mind was still half-straining for him to fuck Loki because _that was the order._ The idea of giving in made his headache recede for a moment. He was trembling with the need to obey, obey, explode, obey. Loki pushed up his hips higher, dragging their cocks together, and the friction through his clothing—through the suede and fur, rustling along Bucky’s length—

Just feeling himself hard made him even _harder_. Loki was reaching up to rub his thumb across Bucky’s lower lip, their eyes still burning into each other. Loki’s mouth was open. His legs, too. When his fingers tightened in Bucky’s hair, Bucky closed his eyes. He didn’t moan; he was a silent creature now, in everything, but the _need_ coiled into the pit of his stomach. His body knew exactly what it wanted, straining, slicking up the fur in his pants—

“Do you always fuck the people trying to kill you?” Bucky breathed.

Loki brought him even closer. A grin could be heard in his voice. “If they’re good at it.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments comfort Loki in being a space floozy.


	5. Loki

 

 

 

 

 

James was brutal in an unexpected way—he made Loki come twice before he deigned to find his own pleasure, spending himself with his fingers tight in Loki’s hair, thrusting in his mouth one last time before a great shuddering stillness took over. He was like quicklime on Loki’s tongue, scalding hot and salted to tears; the sudden taste was like his entire humanity bursting free all at once, better than the finest wines of Asgard—and Loki fancied himself a connoisseur of both spirits.

When it was over, James rolled off him and lay on his back while his breathing calmed down. He had an arm over his eyes; in the faint light of the underground igloo, his body looked deathly white, all sharp lines and hard planes, with the cold glint of metal on his left side. But it was made softer by the softening between his thighs, and warmer by the warmth of his sweat. His breath plumed in the cool obscurity of the igloo.

“You were,” Loki breathed, “just as I imagined.”

James didn’t seem to hear it for the compliment it was. Maybe he hadn’t even heard Loki at all. When he spoke, his voice was back to a quiet rasp. “That was too close.”

“What was?”

“HYDRA.”

“Oh.” Loki had nearly forgotten about them.

The igloo was deeply silent, lit only by Loki’s flickering green-and-gold lantern. Soon there’d be no oxygen left, which meant they’d have to resurface soon. Loki wracked his mind for a spell to create more air; he would have loved spending a few more hours down there.

“You should go while you can,” James said quietly.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. Things are just getting interesting.” Loki sat up and stretched. “I _thought_ it was all too easy before. I suppose these trigger words are an acceptable challenge. It is our turn now to play our hand.”

James kept his arm over his eyes. “I don’t have anything to play.”

“Nonsense. Of course you do, lover mine.” Loki’s grin widened. “You just need to _trust_ me.”

 

*

 

When the crackling ground let them out, there was only pure white underneath the dark trees. At first, Loki thought HYDRA had cleaned up the clearing, but then he realized the corpses were still there—except his own, probably retrieved for examination. A fresh snowfall had covered them up during the night. The rot had frozen, and the mountain air was back to its crystal crispness. Nature truly was beautiful.

James picked up a weapon at once, brushing snow off of it, checking with quick moves that it was still functional. He had put his blood-stained clothes back on and seemed to get more human by the second; there was a liveliness, an anxiety in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Loki thought again of going back to Asgard and realized once and for all that even if he could, he wouldn’t want to return. He was free to do what he did best: stop thinking about it entirely, and chase more immediate gratifications. To Hel with them all anyway.

“All right,” James said, shaking Loki out of his thoughts. “What now?”

“You tell me,” Loki answered. “For this to really work, we need to act exactly as you would, were you alone.”

James was silent for a minute. “Then let’s look for a river.”

 

*

 

Low temperatures did not harm Loki for a number of reasons, but he could feel the cold all the same, and knew enough about Midgardians to tell that James was performing an incredible feat.

Wading waist-high in the river, he was breaking ice with the butt of his rifle as he went. His lips were turning blue, which of course was the intended idea. The river would disperse his scent; and the ice cold water would lower his body temperature, making him harder to detect via heat trackers.

He seemed to have almost forgotten about Loki. In that moment, trudging downstream, putting all his strength in moving forward despite the ice in his path and the water weighing down his clothes, he was truly, desperately trying to get _away_ from the people who’d caged him for years. He must have been just as desperate all the times he’d tried it before—which had all ended in his capture, in his pain, in the renewed annihilation of his self.

 _Not this time,_ Loki thought, wading behind. This time, James had him, and with him by his side he was sure to—

Loki slowed to a stop, his coat moving slowly around his legs. Protectiveness sat uncomfortably in his chest. He’d _just_ decided never to return to Asgard. Now was not the time to invent himself some new burden based in senseless sentiment. Was it?

He watched James, still going ahead, and felt an uneasy stirring again. Why _was_ he so determined to help some Midgardian he’d just met? So far it had been fun. But for once in his life, could he not learn a lesson? Sentiment led to responsibility, and he wanted no more responsibilities. Originally, he’d wanted to destroy Pierce and his HYDRA, to teach them the consequences of harming a god. James had been a means to an end. But he’d already become an end of his own.

Loki saw the slippery slope and felt himself lured further down, heavy as his clothes were with water. His fingers were twitching, twirling, trying to dispel some of the agitation he felt. No—he hadn’t wanted this. He knew he hadn’t.

He stayed still for a minute more, watching ahead. The white ice was parting on a black stream behind James as he slammed and shattered his way forward. His blood-stained clothes were still very red—in this cold weather, dead things kept their color for longer than usual.

What would Thor do? Loki thought suddenly. The answer made him scowl. Thor would do exactly what Loki was doing now. He’d do it maybe in a more blustery fashion, but all the same. He absolutely would aid a mortal for no reason. He’d let strangling ties of sympathy bind them together; he wouldn’t fight them, would even welcome them. Had Loki really been _that_ lonely in Asgard, that he would attach himself to the first wretched creature he’d find?

James had finally noticed Loki wasn’t following him anymore. When he turned round, he was pale as snow and his lips were almost black with cold. His blue eyes looked immense with pain, effort and worry.

Loki gave him a faint gesture to signal he could go ahead, and pretended to look around, as if to catch his breath. He waited till James had turned again to cast his spell towards the trees.

It was a simple flame; but even though it landed on cold wet wood, it caught and grew.

They’d just disappeared at the bend of the river when smoke began to rise in the sky.

 

*

 

The buzz of a helicopter broke through the bubbling silence of the icy river not twenty minutes later.

James saw the shadow in the water; he stumbled in the river as if he’d been hit by a bullet. He looked up with the closest thing to panic Loki had ever seen in his eyes.

“How did they…”

He looked around, turned on instinct, and that was when he spotted the smoke rising over the frosted trees behind them. His wide eyes came back to Loki, who winced.

“All right, listen,” he begun, though he knew perfectly well words were useless at the moment. “In my defense—”

The helicopter roared over them like a monstrous, oversized dragonfly. James took a step back in the water. While he’d stood still, the ice had already begun to reform around him, thinner than a spider web, and it cracked when he moved. He was looking up; Loki knew it was now or never.

He cloaked himself into invisibility. When James looked back down and didn’t see him, he was not exactly _surprised._ But he still lost a moment to shock.

The next second, he leaped out of the river, water sluicing off his suede clothing, and set off running down the bank. The helicopter did a second passage; its belly opened on something dark. Loki was still standing in the water, invisible, with his heart hammering painfully against his ribs. Regrets and anger were making an absolute wreck of his stomach, but it was too late to change anything. Right? Not that he _wanted_ to change anything. This was what he meant to do.

He braced himself for a hail of bullets, but it the thing coming out of the flying beast was not a weapon. It was a speaker.

James seemed to _sense_ it, like the doe had sensed him the night before. He stopped, turned round and took aim. It was no use; his gun wasn’t made for long-range shooting. When he fired, the sound was so deafening Loki irrationally feared an avalanche, even though they were too far down the mountain for anything like that to happen. The helicopter disdainfully rose a few feet higher. James shot and shot at them until his gun was empty, but it was no use. He ran again then, ran for the tree line with his hands over his ears.

Which was when the speaker began blaring the dreaded litany.

_“ZHELANIYE—”_

James disappeared into the trees, but of course it was no use. The helicopter was landing already, telling its sinister rosary, word after word after word.

Loki could have killed them all when they came out to retrieve their prey. He could have killed them at any time. He could have stopped it all from happening. Doing nothing while others suffered was an old habit of his, and yet this time it was surprisingly hard to maintain.

But he maintained it. Damn them all. He didn’t need to act like Thor would. He’d only ever needed to act like himself.

It only took minutes. Two men went into the woods; three came out. The HYDRA helicopter swallowed James Buchanan Barnes in its dark belly, and left unaware that Loki Laufeyson had been there at all.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Loki


	6. Bucky

 

 

 

 

 

They drugged him for the journey. When he opened his eyes, he was in the chair.

Metal bindings over his metal arm, some almost as strong for his flesh-and-blood hand. They’d stripped him of his soft clothes. There was blinding light in his face, making him squint until a shadow stretched over him.

“Well, well, Soldier. This again?”

He looked away, dark hair falling over his face. Pierce, standing in front of him, let out a cold scoff.

“Call me an old fool, but I thought you’d really learned _that_ lesson. Of course, I suppose you had extenuating circumstances…”

There were silver implements shining in the darkness. A lot of people busying themselves around him, indifferent to the Soldier’s muted fear. They were here to maintain him like a piece of machinery, like they maintained the threatening headgear ready to close around his forehead. The room reeked of urine and bleach.

“…you were technically kidnapped, and you did manage to take down Loki. You’ll be happy to know his body’s in the other room.”

His heart jumped at that, which was nonsensical. Whether they realized or not the body was a fake didn’t matter anymore. It was too late for anyone to worry about it.

“But, Soldier…” Pierce sighed. “Why didn’t you come back to us afterwards? Why did we have to chase you like a dog running from the pound? You must have known how it would end.”

Bucky wondered how many times this had been done to him. Dozens? Hundreds? How many times had he sat there, screaming while they ripped the thoughts from his head? With all these people watching?

How many times had he tried to escape?

“No response,” Pierce noted. “It might sound counter-intuitive, but I almost wish you could actually remember this conversation later. It would save both of us a lot of trouble. I suppose that’s the proverbial flaw in the code.”

When the Soldier spoke at last, his voice was slow.

“No, that’s not it.”

The whole room froze for a beat. Obviously, they hadn’t expected him to actually say anything.

Pierce raised an eyebrow. “No? Enlighten me, then. ”

“Oh, there is no specific flaw I could name. It’s rather that the whole thing is rotten to the root.”

From where he was, in a corner of the room, Bucky could pin-point the moment where Pierce realized something was horribly wrong. Maybe it was the Soldier’s speech patterns, or maybe it was the huge, sharp, unsettling grin now spreading on his face, or the way he was leaning forward in the chair despite the bindings.

“And trust me, Alexander. I know something about rot.”

The next second, a huge black snake was rearing on the seat of the chair; it lashed out lightning-fast and buried its fangs in Pierce’s face.

Pierce’s ungodly scream gave Bucky the window he needed to grab a technician’s weapon. His own disguise—strike team guard—faded in shreds of green light. He wished it could have stayed on longer—the confusion would have helped him—but Loki was possibly too busy to maintain the illusion anymore—or maybe he was too fond of dramatic moments. Bucky gunned down all the people running for the doors; by the time they thought of shooting back, there were few enough left that he could take all of them down in a rush of scarlet blood.

No alarm sounded. No one had had time to alert anyone else. Bucky was breathing hard. It was all over already.

The snake uncoiled from around Pierce’s body, who was breathing in short, liquid gulps, in a pool of his own blood. His face was a gruesome sight, but Bucky took a long look. This he would need to remember.

A shimmer of green, and Loki was back to his normal self. Bucky was surprised by the rush of relief that came over him. His ears were buzzing. He was only beginning to realize what they’d just done.

“I _told_ you it would work,” Loki said.

Bucky wiped blood from his face. “Why did you set a tree on fire?”

Loki looked miffed. “It was all I could think of to reveal our position. Admittedly not my best idea, but they didn’t even question it.” He slicked back his hair with one hand. “Nor did they question why you conveniently managed to run into the woods before succumbing to words-induced paralysis.”

Pierce gargled something, drawing Loki’s attention to him.

“Deafness spell,” he said. “Obviously not viable as a long-term solution, but for a one-time trick? Surprisingly useful. Your men spread out to look for the Soldier in the forest, which was a terrible, terrible idea. We killed one, I disguised James as him, disguised myself as James, and _voilà.”_

Then all the good humor went out of his voice. He walked closer to Pierce and loomed over him. His lips were still in the shape of a smile, but his eyes had gone very cold.

“I wish you could applaud me, my dear man, but I do believe I severed your spinal cord.”

Restlessness was getting under Bucky’s skin already. Monologues had never been his forte. “Let’s go.”

“He’s drowning in his own blood. He’ll die any minute now.” Loki looked up at him with those ice-sharp eyes. “Don’t you want to watch? You’ve earned it.”

“We have to get out of here.” Bucky felt shaky, but he couldn’t afford to go weak yet; they still had to burn the place down and make sure they wouldn’t be leaving any witnesses. On instinct, he reached out and grabbed the black-and-green sleeve. “Loki. Please.”

Loki stayed motionless for a second; then the shadows lifted from his eyes.

“Opting for the high road, I see,” he said, then suddenly moved away as if he couldn’t care less about Pierce after all. “I suppose I can follow suit, once a while.”

 

*

 

In the morning, Bucky opened his eyes to the peeling wallpaper of an ugly hotel room.

Kids were shouting in the hallway. A bitter smell of coffee rose from beneath the floorboards, and the whole thing made him believe for a split second that he was… somewhere else. He still couldn’t form a coherent memory, not without Loki painfully pulling them to the surface of his staticky brain. Right now it might be a blessing.

After a moment of quiet mindlessness, he realized the television was on, albeit very quietly. When he turned his head, he saw that Loki was sitting up on the other bed, cross-legged, eating trail mix from a whiskey glass and watching the small screen with unsettling focus. His armor seemed even more out of place in this setting than Bucky’s metal arm. It was a strangely comforting thing to note.

Bucky lay there, without moving, and looked inside himself for relief. He found nothing much. Maybe he still couldn’t fully realize what they’d done, and that was why relief wouldn’t come. Maybe relief was simply the absence of fear. Or maybe relief was the possibility of staying in bed for a minute longer.

He straightened up on his elbows, slowly, and noticed clothes he’d never seen before on the chair by his bed. Faded jeans, a black hoodie, a dark red henley.

“You keep dressing me up.” The smoke and fire had reduced his voice to a low rasp. The smell was still caught in his hair.

“I do enjoy it,” Loki said without looking away from the television. But the next moment, his eyes shifted to Bucky and his lips drew a smile. “Good morning, lover mine.”

“Morning,” Bucky answered, half-convinced he was having a strange dream. Pretty innocuous for once. Maybe Loki could also pull the nightmares from his head, leaving only gentler fantasies.

“I am extremely pleased to announce to you there is an impressive array of breakfast foods, right at our disposal, one floor below.” Loki frowned at his trail mix. “Though they would not allow me to bring napkin-wrapped bacon upstairs. I must go back and steal some.”

“Did you go out looking like this?”

“Please,” Loki said with an eyeroll. “Unlike _some_ aliens, I am educated enough on Midgardian matters to successfully blend in.” He dug through his trail mix some more, apparently looking for cashews.

If he’d been alone, Bucky would have stared into space forever, maybe stuck into place by the senselessness of himself, by the impossible task of rebuilding his humanity from the ground up, now that he was nominally free. But of course Loki’s mere presence was enough to derail that kind of anguish. Nothing like the absurdity of a Scandinavian god eating nuts for Bucky to slip past his own existential dread—and finally get out of bed.

So he slowly got up and slipped on his new clothes. His arm was buzzing quietly, and he was more aware of it than usual; or maybe he was simply more aware of himself. Somehow, the denim jeans were as soft and pleasant as the winter suede had been, which made his mind glitch again with buried memories of small comforts. Some people had taken care of him once, long ago.

“You planning to stick around?” he rasped, zipping up the hoodie.

Loki looked away from the TV again. “Elaborate.”

“We did some damage yesterday, but even with most of my mind empty, I know it won’t be enough. They’ll show up again. Seems only fair to let you know.”

Unexpectedly enough, Loki gave him a wide grin. “Now _this_ is the kind of victory I like. The one that leads to even more mayhem and bloodshed. Gods!” He stretched luxuriously. “I _was_ lost, too. Ruling Asgard—what was I thinking?”

Bucky wanted to smile, which surprised him. Smiling was a human thing, and his humanity felt so far below the surface. Yet at the same time it was also rising to his skin. Maybe chaos wasn’t always a bad thing; Loki certainly threw a spanner in the works of trauma.

“So that’s it,” Bucky said. “You’re just going to stay and help me.”

“Best course of action by far. You owe me a favor; if I keep helping you, you’ll owe me a bigger one. If I don’t and you’re killed, you can never repay me.” Loki flicked a nonexistent crumb off his sleeve. “Besides, I have nothing better to do at the moment.”

He’d just mentioned ruling Asgard, but Bucky figured that wasn’t any of his business. Besides, he didn’t _want_ Loki to leave, which faintly surprised him—in a good way. Already there were things he wanted; already there were people he liked. He found himself clinging to every little bit of personality rising from the ashes of his mind.

He still felt compelled to give him an out. “You don’t have to stay. You’ve done more than enough.”

 _“Finally,_ some praise,” Loki said, getting up and turning off the TV. “Please, do keep going. You could add something about my courage. Or wits. Or abilities in battle.”

“You did save me.”

“I did,” Loki said, walking closer. “And did not betray you in the process. Barely even considered it.” He stopped a few inches from him and mock-sighed. “Is this how it feels to be the hero?”

Bucky doubted it. Their combined kill number ranged close to a hundred—and they were planning to kill more.

“I’ve been told heroes act for selfless reasons,” he said.

“Yes, well, what do you know? You barely remember your own name.” Loki got even closer. “Now _I,_ a millennium-old god extremely knowledgeable on all heroic matters, have been told heroes get physically pleasured for their services. Usually by the grateful, dashing young person they just rescued from a terrible fate.” He tilted his head to the side. “So. Care to be traditional?”

“Is that the favor I owe you?” Bucky asked dryly.

“Heavens, no. I am not so distasteful. I just feel our first time was a bit rushed.” Loki smirked at him. “If you’ll deny me, make haste with it. I have a bacon heist to plan.”

Bucky’s existence wasn’t in any kind of order right now. He had ghosts in his head and blood on his hands and several names that didn’t feel like they belonged to him. He was barely human, ageless, just reborn. He might as well go to bed with a God of Chaos, especially one that made him feel like smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you thought :D

**Author's Note:**

> Wanna support my real-life writing career? You can follow me on [Tumblr](https://naomisalman.tumblr.com/) about it. :D


End file.
